Hands
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Lorelai washes her hands. Set during Written in the Stars. Spoiler for Return of the Prodigal Daughter, episode 6.09. Disclaimer: Theirs, not mine.


He's in. He's all in. He said he was all in.

She leans against the stall door, seemingly unaware of the din outside the door. Above her, a spider lazily crawls across the ceiling. Occasionally, she looks down at her hands, clasped together, and contemplates just why she's been so clumsy, so shaky, these past few days since his return. And just as quickly, she looks up at the ceiling, pondering a possibility she can't fully articulate.

When he asked her if she was scared, she said nothing. In her mind, she sees the tiny scrap of newsprint, his hand and then his wrist as he waves it at her. She thinks she might like to kiss the inside of that wrist. Will her lips burn as they meet the hot throbbing of his veins? Or will she turn into Ms. Freeze? No. There will definitely be heat.

Looking down at her own hands again, she wonders: what would it be like to peel the fabric of his shirt away from his wrist? To slowly press a kiss to the cords of blue there? Would he then let her move on to…other places?

Her hands had touched him a few times during the evening. Each time, a jolt arced between them, and both knew it.

She opens the stall door and walks to the sink. Leaning forward, she presses her forehead against the mirror, sighs, then straightens and looks herself in the eye. The ending, she needs to plan the ending to this evening. Isn't that how it's supposed to go? A beginning, a middle and an end. The beginning was last week when he arranged the date. The middle was dinner, and now, the chapter needs an ending.

Turning on the water, she washes her hands. Reaching for the soap pump against the wall, she thinks that maybe he'll walk her up the porch stairs at the Crap Shack. Does she hand him the key, or does she fumble at the lock, for lord knows, the way she's been around him lately, there's no way she can insert that key into that hole. Dirty! She giggles.

Not enough soap, she thinks, and pumps one more time.

Or maybe they'll go to the diner. Will it be empty? Will he usher her into the storeroom or for that matter, upstairs?

No matter where or how, she knows it will end in only one way. He'll look at her and she'll know. She'll sense the emotion in his eyes and it's a look she's seen before. Under a diner counter. In a church. Across a diner counter. In a crowded square on a cool winter night. On a porch on a warm spring night.

She wrings her hands in the water, sloughing off the soap bubbles. The beat of the water is steady, a warm flowing feeling contrasting with her-ever-more-frantic hand-wringing.

She'll reach over, her hand on the side of his neck. She will feel his blood pumping through her hands. Or is it her blood throbbing against his neck? She can't be sure, and the water splashes over the edge of the sink.

She thinks that as he begins to lower his head to hers, she will let her hand trail up his face, smooth hand over raspy stubble, trying to reassure herself that he is still him and she is still herself, in spite of what they are about to do.

The kiss, when it comes, will startle her in its gentleness. Shouldn't they be flailing?

She shakes the last droplets off her hands and reaches for the paper towels.

No collision of bodies and lips and walls, no Bull-Durham-table-action: she knows she will be greeted by the dichotomy of firm softness, just like that night over eight weeks ago. He will reach out with his thumbs and tease the edges of her lips, 'til her smile parts, tracing first the upper then the lower lip. Except, she thinks as she crunches the towel together and wads it into a tight little baseball, she won't be smiling. She's scared now and she will be scared then.

She looks across the room and sees the wastebasket. Taking aim, she carefully tosses the used mass of towel.

His lips will nudge at hers, nibbling at the edges like a cat savoring a treat. He has pined for her; he cannot believe she is here in his arms, and so he will kiss her gently. He will slowly savor her, because that's the way he is. But she will want, will need more. For this is one thing she knows for sure: he is a man, not a man-boy. Her hands will surround his head, and she thinks she might be surprised to find that her fingers will be entwined in his hair. Her thumbs will stroke his temples, then move to his face as she pulls away and looks at him. His cap will fall to the ground in slow-motion and neither one will care.

She shoots, she scores! as the wadded towels land in the wastebasket.

Not satisfied, he will return to her lips. He will look at her like she's a wheatgrass or some other disgustingly healthful type of smoothie. He'll keep up the pretense of gentleness, placing kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the apple of her cheeks, and move his way down to her throat.

She reaches up and touches her cheek, looking in the mirror. Extending her index finger, she gently traces her lips, and decides not to refresh her lipstick. Her hand trails down to her throat.

There, where the blood beats closest to the surface, he will discover her biggest secret: that when it comes to him, she's a coward. All her energy will be directed into preventing him from discovering this, but he will win. A look of triumph will cross his face. But it's different from the looks others have sent her way. They were possessive and handled her as if she was a country conquered. He, on the other hand, knows she's a country yet to be discovered and will take her hand and embark on the journey together with her.

Her fingers will still caress his face, tracing its outline like it is the most precious thing in the world, like he is the most precious thing to her. And she will suddenly understand that she has been afraid of herself all along. Not of him, but of her breaking him.

Startled, her eyes meet her mirror-eyes above the sink. She laughs.

A stall door opens, and a pleasant-looking woman comes out. Their eyes meet fleetingly in the mirror. There are words but she hears them only faintly, like a drowning woman going over Niagara Falls.

She thinks that she will smile, and then kiss him again, thoroughly this time, exploring everything there is to be explored. She thinks he will say something, then it's his turn and the kiss will be anything but gentle. She thinks they'll start to move, upstairs…

She hears words again and refocusing, blinks and looks in the mirror again.

"Great first date?" the woman asks.

She answers as if on autopilot. "The best."

"Come here often?"

"No."

What, so suddenly she's Ms. Monosyllabic? She's sort of angry with the woman for disturbing her idyll, but thankful too as she realizes he's probably thinking she's run off. Soon she'll go back out there to him.

Her eyes meet her mirror-eyes once more. She knows now that he knows that their kisses later will make her tremble and shudder and she's not a shudderer.

She smiles. Their kisses. Not his, not hers. Theirs.

"Looks like a great guy," the other woman responds.

"Yeah," she replies as she moves towards the door.

She holds the door open for the other woman, who just shrugs and inclines her head towards the stalls.

"Kids!" the woman explains in that exasperated tone Lorelai hopes she didn't use too often with Rory.

She sees him just outside the door, looking annoyed but smiles once he sees her. He drapes his arm around her shoulder and shepherds her towards the door, where Buddy is grinning by the register. Reaching across her chest, she takes her hand, her oh-so-clean hand, and holds onto his as they say their good-nights.

He steps forward, holding the door for her. She turns one last time and sees the other woman emerge, holding a young girl's hand. "Over here, April, let's order dessert" is the last she hears before she's outside, heading towards a truck and her undiscovered country.


End file.
